Behold the signal of Old Time
That bids you close your pantomime!
He purchased The English Dance of Death. He strode along the street, under the lamps, but he remembered himself at the age of eleven, paying a visit to his uncle in Gerrard Street, Soho. The uncle had broken a thigh bone.
*
‘I am like an old woman who has tripped on her skirt,’ said the uncle, screwing up his face in exasperation. He sat with the fractured leg supported by a gout stool, in his small, dark single-windowed room. ‘I shall have one limb shorter for ever. How long will it take a bone this stout to knit?’
From a chair opposite, the boy nodded politely, but glanced sideways through the open door towards another open door on the gloomy, brown landing. He could see old books, amphorae, chalices, busts and other fascinating items in the room beyond. Sometimes a silver-haired woman entered this treasure cave and emerged with an item, and took it downstairs. She was the widow of a seller of books and miscellaneous items who carried on the business in the shop below, and used the upper floor for storage and lodgers. She heard the boy enduring the invalid’s moans, and when the uncle fell asleep, she beckoned with a finger and passed a book through the door. ‘This should keep you amused,’ she whispered. ‘It is yours if you like.’ It was an edition of The Dance of Death by Holbein.
*
‘THE DIRECT INSPIRATION FOR COMBE and Rowlandson,’ said Mr Inbelicate. ‘Probably the edition by Mors, engraved by the great Hollar.’
*
SHE WHISPERED: ‘I THINK YOU’LL find the bones in the book more interesting than his.’
In a cramped bedroom, by the light of a candle, the boy stared so hard at the grinning skulls and exposed femurs that even when he shut his eyes he could still see white floating in the dark. Here were Adam and Eve expelled from Eden while Death played on the fiddle and jigged at his triumph. Scene after scene showed the skeleton’s grim work: kidnapping a child from the very fireside where his parents sat; pouring wine down the drunkard’s throat; breaking a waggoner’s vehicle to pieces. Holbein’s work proclaimed that all men must dance with this partner, whether emperor, king, pope, merchant, peddler or fool – all will go to the ball with Death.
*
‘BUT NOW, LET US ANNOUNCE that “Chatham Charlie” is no more, for he has a new name,’ said Mr Inbelicate. ‘He is Boz – for that is what he calls himself, as he pens the pieces for Whitehead.
‘If asked to explain that pseudonym, he would tell you that it was formerly a nickname used around the family home for a beloved young brother, Augustus, for whom he had a profound affection. He would carry the boy around in his arms, stroking away as though Augustus were a cat or a puppy.’
Mr Inbelicate explained that the brother was originally nicknamed Moses, supposedly after the character of Moses Primrose, in a book by that former resident of Canonbury Tower, Oliver Goldsmith, namely The Vicar of Wakefield. But the child, who was always sniffling, pronounced it more as ‘Boses’ and this in turn became Boz.
‘But I am afraid, Scripty, I am much too suspicious of the late Chatham Charlie to take this story at face value. Try reading The Vicar of Wakefield. The character of Moses Primrose essentially does one thing in that book. He exchanges his father’s old nag for a gross of worthless green spectacles, whose rims are encrusted with verdigris. I simply do not believe you would name a beloved baby brother after such a dull and uninteresting character. I believe there is another explanation.
‘You see, Scripty, in Kent, where Chatham Charlie grew up, the word “moses” was dialect for a young frog. Not so highfalutin and literary as saying your young brother was named after a character in The Vicar of Wakefield is it? But rather more likely. And, young Augustus was previously given the name of another aquatic creature – “Shrimp”. So he started off as a shrimp, and graduated to the status of a frog. It makes sense to me. So having already mentioned the frog-faced writer Hervey, let’s bring in the rather froggy Boz, as he endeavours to produce the story for Whitehead.’
*
THE COOL CLOUDINESS OF THE February morning had apparently seized up Boz’s brain, as he sat at his table before the window. He was fatigued and uninspired by his own work.
He had begun with: ‘Once upon a time, there dwelt in a narrow street on the Surrey side of the water, within three minutes’ walk of the old London Bridge, Mr Joseph Tuggs…’
The surname was right, evocative of tug meat, or bad mutton. The title was ‘The Tuggs’s at Ramsgate’, and that was right too. And the story itself had an excellent pedigree, being inspired by a family of characters in the book by Washington Irving, the book that he had loved in the blacking factory. Mr Lamb, in Irving’s work, was a butcher who had made money, and the Lambs were ‘smitten with the high life’. They took to talking bad French and playing upon the piano and throwing a grand ball, ‘to which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbours’.
But try as he might, the pages of the Tuggs’s would not come. He thought hard of the area where Joseph Tuggs had a grocer’s shop before coming into money. He thought of Lant Street, and Horsemonger Lane, and the whole shabby area within a few minutes’ walk of the old London Bridge. He imagined Simon, the son of Joseph Tuggs, fainting when a legal functionary with a green umbrella and a blue bag brought news to their shop that the family was suddenly in possession of twenty thousand pounds. He wrote: ‘To a casual observer, or to anyone unacquainted with the family, this fainting would have been unaccountable. To those who understood the mission of the man with the bag, and were moreover acquainted with the excitability of the nerves of Mr Simon Tuggs, it was quite comprehensible.’
He came to a stop.
He tried again.
He thought of how money would result in the wearing of gilded waistcoats, and there would be a great desire for good food, as well as visits to the theatre, and travel to the coast. Brighton would be desirable – but, the Tuggs family would ask themselves, could one rely on the safety of stagecoaches to reach there? So they took the steamer to Ramsgate.
Boz then thought of Ramsgate beach, where men typically stood with telescopes and opera-glasses, ogling bathers. Between these two locations, the old London Bridge and Ramsgate, his consciousness fluctuated, but the lines of manuscript still did not grow. He had to do something, because Parliament would resume the next day, and then there would be less time to write. In frustration, he put on his coat and went out for a walk.
There was a closely cropped man on the street, whom Boz had often noticed, handing out temperance tracts, caring not a jot that no one took notice. ‘Read the evidence, madam! Shipwrecks, fires, poverty – all caused by drink! Avoid the bottle! Shun the inn! And you, sir – one in two suicides! Four out of five crimes, madam! You, sir – two-thirds of all cases of insanity! All down to alcohol!’
Boz walked past, and the man’s tract brushed against his upper arm as he did so. If anything made you fancy a drink, it was a campaigner like that.
*
Boz was still struggling with the story a week later. In front of him were numerous crossings-out, indicative of the way his thoughts had gone.
He had the Tuggs family settling themselves into their deckchairs to watch the spectacle of bathers of both sexes plunging into the water. Mr Tuggs was struck with astonishment, and possibly other emotions, by the sight of four young ladies bouncing into the sea in four successive splashes.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Can you get that, Fred?’ said Boz.
A youth of about sixteen raised his eyebrows from a newspaper. He had a wearied expression, but there was enough of a family resemblance to indicate that he was a younger brother to Boz.
The door opened. ‘William Hall, of Chapman and Hall,’ said a voice.
Boz instantly covered up the papers, which indicated the state of incompleteness of the manuscript. He came forward, smiling, to shake the visitor’s hand.
Hall saw before him a young man with long brown hair in luxurian
ce at the temples, and a healthy face in which pink inclined towards red – almost unnaturally healthy, and with a fearless enthusiasm in the eyes. Looking over the young man’s shoulder he saw that the room was uncarpeted and, though airy and tidy, not at all inviting. A deal table had been placed to make the room appear furnished, an ambition it shared with the placement of the few chairs. The books were neatly arranged, though not all upright, which seemed to be an effort to fill the shelves.
Boz saw before him the oddly formed little man, with long arms and a prominent nose. He also saw, in his mind’s eye, the circumstances in which he had often glimpsed this man: behind the counter in the bookshop in the Strand, or sometimes up a ladder, arranging stock, for Boz frequently looked in Chapman and Hall’s window at lunchtime, when at the offices of the Chronicle.
Hall sat down. The chair creaked, as though detachment of mortise and tenon were imminent. Fred was instructed to make coffee.
Boz rubbed his thighs in an energetic motion and then said: ‘Do you know, Mr Hall, I have not merely shaken your hand – I have also shaken the hand of the very person who sold me the magazine in which my first published story appeared.’
‘Is that so?’
‘It was a December, just over two years ago, and you were putting up the shutters. I paid you two and six for a copy of the Monthly Magazine. I remember your face, Mr Hall, because it was a significant moment for me, but I do not expect you to remember mine.’
‘I must confess – I do not. Had there been some unfortunate aberration in the financial circumstances – if for instance you had passed over a farthing too little when you paid – then I would have recalled your features. Otherwise, no. Talking of stories – there are two I believe you have promised Mr Whitehead.’
‘The one called “The Tuggs’s at Ramsgate” is at the point of completion. Then I shall immediately start on another piece which I think will be called “A Little Talk about Spring and the Sweeps”.’
‘Mr Whitehead said you were a punctual and reliable producer of words. I trust he is correct. If the first story is at the point of completion, then, as it is Wednesday today – you should be able to bring it to my office on Friday morning.’
‘Oh undoubtedly.’
‘Now – there is a second reason I have for visiting you today. Are you familiar with the work of Mr Seymour, the artist?’
‘I not only know of his work, he has illustrated one of my pieces. The first time that had happened to me.’
‘Oh, indeed?’
‘Though – the fact is, neither he nor his publisher had the decency to ask my permission, nor did I receive a penny in payment.’
‘I see, I see. I do hope the offence caused was not too great. Sometimes such actions are carried out with good intentions,’ said Hall, who perhaps recalled his own Chat of the Week.
‘But you must have a good reason for mentioning Mr Seymour.’
The rudiments of the scheme were explained. That there would be a new monthly publication, with four etchings in each number, and that a provider of letterpress was required.
‘Much remains to be determined,’ said Hall. ‘We have not even reached agreement on the title yet. Mr Seymour favours calling it The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. I would prefer something more explanatory. Well, we will christen it soon.’
‘What is the Pickwick Club?’
‘It is an imaginary tavern club founded by an imaginary fellow called Samuel Pickwick.’
‘An agreeable enough name.’
‘Mr Seymour’s inspiration is a club that meets not too far from here. Perhaps you know the Castle Tavern?’
‘I know it. But it has a reputation as a sporting establishment. I confess I am no great sportsman.’
‘Neither is Samuel Pickwick. And one might ask just how sporting the club in the Castle really is as well. They have named themselves after a slang expression for gin, which I myself had not heard before. They are called the Daffy Club, and according to Mr Seymour – now what was it he told Mr Chapman? I should have written it down – I think it was: “They may praise Nimrod the Mighty Hunter, but the God they truly worship is Bacchus.” Well, in this drunkards’ den, there is an unusual tradition which Mr Seymour has observed at first hand. He is quite captivated by its possibilities. So is Mr Chapman. So am I. So we hope will you be.’
Hall proceeded to explain the essence of Seymour’s scheme, based upon the fantastic travellers’ tales told at the Castle – that Mr Pickwick would collect tales on the road, in the belief such tales were true, accompanied by several other members of the club, and that the whole party would involve themselves in various scrapes and adventures in the course of their mission.
‘Mr Seymour envisages something like a journal or a chronicle or a scrapbook of the club. This Mr Pickwick fellow, in retirement, has collected together all his papers, recording the club’s exploits, and the tales he has heard, and these papers are passed to an imaginary editor. The editor would be the role played by you. You would in fact be writing the material which constitutes these papers. So you would play two roles – editor and writer. To keep up the pretence, you will not be credited as author, but rather as the editor of these papers.’
‘So if I took it on, the work would appear as “Edited by Boz”.’
‘That is so, if you wish to use the nom de plume. But whatever is included in the letterpress, it must fit within twenty-four printed pages every month, no more, no less. Then it will be sewn together with Mr Seymour’s four pictures, put in a wrapper, and sold in shilling monthly numbers. Is something the matter?’
‘I was just thinking of the book peddler coming round when I was a boy, with his numbers. Always boasting to my nurse of the poems he knew by heart. If a recital went on too long, the best way of stopping him was to take one of his samples.’
*
Mary Weller was on the doorstep looking into the book peddler’s bag of wares, with the boy behind her dress, in the hall.
‘Now if you want an atlas – or a Bible – even Johnson’s entire dicky,’ said the peddler, ‘I have them all in parts. No poems though – I can tell you those myself, gratis. I know more verses by heart than all the parts I carry around with me in all four seasons.’
To prove it, he held his hand across his chest and recited lines he announced as by Alexander Pope. Nothing, no conceivable resistance by the nurse on the doorstep, could prevent his leaving a number for inspection, for there was no obligation at all, it was just for inspection. He thrust forward a part of a sentimental novel.
‘If it does not make you cry for the poor girl within the pages – a girl about your age – then you have a very hard heart for a Christian female, a very hard heart. And I do not believe you have a hard heart.’
The peddler looked to one side and into the distance, somehow suggesting that he himself had been amongst those who had experienced misfortune, that, yes, he had suffered.
*
‘The type of writer we seek for this task,’ said Hall, ‘is one derived, in an entirely logical fashion, from our requirements. Mr Seymour will present us with the four pictures every month. And every month the letterpress will describe the pictures, and provide the material that links them. Let me be more precise. We require printed matter to cover one and a half sheets, or twenty-four printed pages, demy octavo. There will be about five hundred words per printed page of letterpress, or twelve thousand words per published part. For that work, my partner and I wish to offer a payment of nine guineas per sheet, at the rate of one and a half sheets per month. Which is to say: we will pay you slightly over fourteen pounds per month.’
‘How many parts would there be?’ said Boz, outwardly calm in his demeanour, verging on a show of indifference.
*
‘TO TAKE THE WORK,’ SAID Mr Inbelicate, ‘would mean Boz could afford to marry – he could live quite comfortably in London, with enough to raise children and hire servants. That was the meaning of his earnings increasing by over fourteen
pounds per month. His total earnings would increase by half.’
*
‘WE HAVE NOT COME TO a final decision on that,’ said Hall. ‘About twenty, I would say. We aim to publish the first number on 31 March. The same day as the first number of the Library of Fiction.’
Perhaps mistaking Boz’s calm exterior for lack of enthusiasm, Hall added: ‘If the work were to be very successful, Mr Chapman and I would reward success, and consider some increase in your remuneration. But all this is conditional,’ said Hall, clapping his hands once, as if to indicate his own aversion to speculative thoughts, and his preference for hard facts. ‘We have yet to see your stories for Mr Whitehead.’
‘On Friday morning you shall have the first story.’
‘It is most important that it is submitted by then. We do not want a writer who waits for inspiration to strike.’
‘I have always prided myself on my punctuality. I would sooner finish ahead of time than be late.’
‘It is not only that the rigid monthly schedule is demanded by myself and Mr Chapman – it is also demanded by Mr Seymour. As you may know, he has a reputation for speed.’
‘I do not believe that Mr Seymour would have cause to complain about my performance.’
‘You must also be aware that once a part is printed, it is done. There is no going back to revise it. The writer must live with his mistakes. Or make any mistakes part of the fabric of the work.’
‘Which is what men generally do with their lives.’
‘You have not said yet whether you want to take the task on.’
‘It is true that I do have other commitments. Including my parliamentary work. I would have to consider how twelve thousand words a month can be fitted in.’
‘Well, you must give us your final answer when you bring the story on Friday. If you do take on the work, we will also require you to bring an estimate of the number of words on an average manuscript page written in your hand, and therefore a calculation of the total number of handwritten pages we may expect from you per month to complete the twelve thousand words.’
Death and Mr. Pickwick Page 56